


paper crowns

by cereal_whore



Series: Dabi Says Fuck the Human Species: Artificial Natural Selection Addition [5]
Category: The Ascendance Trilogy - Jennifer A. Nielsen, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Big Brother Dabi (My Hero Academia), Gen, Parental Kurogiri (My Hero Academia), Touch-Starved Shigaraki, bakugou: ill fucking gamble your molars away you sterling silver bitch, beta as dead as prince touya, dabi + shiggy + baku. the deadbeat trio, i'm having a hARD time writing bc i cant reference things from modern century :( like roombas, is dabi touya? will remain...unSolVed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22835632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal_whore/pseuds/cereal_whore
Summary: Dabi agreed to being adopted by a freak called Afo, solely because the nobleman promised to cook the raw chicken he stole earlier that day.It's the end of the day, Chicky still isn't cooked, and instead, he and two other orphans, Shigaraki and Bakugou, are told they're really adopted to carry out this totally legal plan of impersonating the late Prince Touya, a boy who was presumed dead nearly a decade ago.The consequences of not being chosen as Prince Touya, or refusing to follow Afo's headass plan, don't need to be said aloud.--Or: i ripoff another premade plot ('The False Prince' by Jennifer Nielson).
Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki & Dabi, Bakugou Katsuki & Shigaraki Tomura | Shimura Tenko, Dabi & Shigaraki Tomura | Shimura Tenko, Dabi/Identity Crisis
Series: Dabi Says Fuck the Human Species: Artificial Natural Selection Addition [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1483586
Comments: 16
Kudos: 73





	paper crowns

**Author's Note:**

> if you know the plot of 'The False Prince', please don't spoil it! like obviously it's not that big of a spoiler (or even really a spoiler itself) considering like. we literally already have outside knowledge of each boy's identity, but like. idk.

“Why are you carrying a raw chicken?”

Dabi stares. The _audacity_. “For food.”

“Couldn’t you bring it in cooked? You know the orphanage can’t afford an oven. What are you going to do? Chuck it into the sun?” The kid scorns haughtily, and Dabi’s going to _punt_ this bitchass to the side. However, Dabi’s limited and devolved self-preservation skills, activated for once in his otherwise dissolute life, prevents him from doing so. By transitive property, they also prevent him from getting instantly demolished by the asshole. After all, in comparison, Dabi is lanky with the wiry frame of a denatured clothes hanger; the malnutrition settling on his bones, make him appear younger than whatever teenage year he’s barely hanging on in. 

This older kid, someone who Dabi’s witnessed shove kids out of cots he wants to sleep in, has the moral compass of a spherical earth. Dabi’s seen him and his stupid goons tie five-year-olds to their bedposts or chairs while they’re sleeping, so that in the morning, they’d miss their breakfasts, allowing the older boys to take their bowls for them. The asshole could and would easily debone Dabi’s entire jaw if he wanted.

So, instead, Dabi retreats, appearing indifferent to his glowers, and prepares to head outside to find a possible fire, or a household he could cry them into sparing a coal or two. If he really can’t cook it, then he’ll just eat the chicken whole, because hey, fuel for his bacteria gut and spirit for the next bubonic plague. After all, he refuses to let food go to waste- especially one that he spent half an hour running with while an armed butcher barrelled down the streets after him.

And besides. He can’t really be _mad_ that some of the kids leered at the inedibility of the food he brought home: it's waste if they can’t eat it, despite his efforts. 

They’re all on the streets, knowing that with each day they age, the less likely adults want to adopt them. The youngest are loud and reckless as they’re bullied by the older kids, while the older kids are spiteful and violent.

There’s nowhere to go past their labels as an orphan.

“Dabi!” Startled, he bristles, glancing backwards with a slanted stare. Glaring back, is Rachel, a white, nasty ass smelling bitch ([ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wS9qumBAVUk ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wS9qumBAVUk)). Old hag. He’s pretty sure she never wanted to run this orphanage, but did so as the kingdom paid for its expenses, and she abuses the building for her own personal uses. There’s a reason why none of them have hot water but she comes out an hour later from the baths, pruney and thinner than she already is. “Dabi, you listening?”

“No.” He says reflexively, finally bothering to take a hold of the situation. _Dammit_. She’s standing by the only (official) exit of the building. God, he’s ditching. If he doesn’t leave now, she, the sockless soggy bread, is going to start rapping him over stealing chicken.

“Dabi!” At the second shriek, he flinches, hardening. 

If KFC existed in this time period, he would’ve automatically banned her from his Mii-plaza-customised Victorian edition bucket (8 pieces, whole. Head included). 

“ _Boy, come here! I need you to boil water for these handsome_ \- why are you holding a chicken.”

And it’s not a question, it’s a statement providing her recovery time for her lagging comprehension.

Pursing his lips, he adjusts his sticky arm around the slippery body of a hairless chicken. He glares, slowly observing the scene. A tall man with glittering eyes, a gaze burrowed with ashy chalk remains unflinching, glued onto him. He’s wearing a mask. A mask as black as the multitude of obsidian stones decorating crooked hands, as black as the cape and accessories flaunting his pretentious presence. He doesn’t dress like a show-off with flashy, peacock colours and thick stones and chains.

He dresses like he’s attending the funeral of someone he’s killed, and _wants_ to let others in on his deed.

Whatever. 

In such a situation, perhaps the average kid’s alarms would blare, their senses honed from scouring through the darkened streets and the unlit basements of pubs and diners, where men with brittle and ringed knuckles are the only one with the lamps. 

Dabi however, also does not give a shit, and has a concerning absence of care for foresight, perhaps parallel to his absence of brain matter and common sense. 

“Dabi.”

“What.”

“I said, pour hot water for these men!” Snarls Rachel, her face twisted, yet, remaining absolutely the same as all the wrinkles rippling around her mouth were always there. Dabi suspects he’s the cause for the majority of them. 

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s fine,” chuckles the strange man beside her, flaunting his silk shirts that carry the smell of hot sun and an unpolluted day: a clean complexion that contrasts the griminess of his environment. “Boys will be boys.” Dabi narrows his eyes at that. “The chicken was stolen, I presume?”

“Ah, probably. That’s Dabi- he’s certainly one of the naughtier ones,” Rachel’s tongue kisses the back of her teeth loudly, the way an agitated horse’s hoof claps the floor. He rolls his eyes, though, remains silent against such a claim. She’s not wrong. “He’s arrogant, brattish, and immature for his age. Never went to school, either- took him in when he was a child. So he never learned manners, either.. Ignore him. If you would like to buy a child, buy one that wouldn’t run away to go piss in the wilderness.” 

“I would _not_ pee in the wilderness-” he needs toilet paper.

“He has a problem with authority.” 

“No, I just have a problem with you,” he scowls, spitting a wad of saliva that smacks the insides of the sink’s rusty bowl. He ignores the flare of Rachel’s offset nostrils, the way her shoulders crawl up to her ears defensively, providing the outline of a hunched vulture. Huh. 

“See, ungrateful! Cared for him ever since he was little and he shows zero respect despite me taking him in when he was helpless and a child no one wanted, and no one still wants!”

“You did _not_ care for me,” and it’s the truth. It was actually one of the few older kids who took sympathy on others- was a noble kid whose family was murdered and he lost his inheritance. So also one of the few nobles Dabi didn’t hate. 

Then the noble kid (and Dabi realises on a hollow note that he doesn’t remember his name) was sold off automatically, and from what he heard, killed by his own buyers who wanted to end the family name. 

“Don’t worry. He’s still young. How old is he, actually?” The man inquires, his tone smooth and almost amused-sounding. Dabi hates him already. He sounds condescending, and looks like a prick. A splintered toothpick collecting sunrays reflected off of puddles mixed with melted lard.

“Dabi, answer the man!”

And _now_ they want to talk like he’s part of the conversation? “I don’t know,” Dabi replies harshly. And he would’ve said that whether or not he did know, but he actually takes a second after answering out of instantaneous spite. He’s lived here for years- the amount lost to him after so long. Huh. He knew he was seven when he was placed here, essentially abandoned.

He wonders how old he is now. It’s not like he knows what day it is at any point of his life. 

Whatever. At least now he knows how to hold and run with a chicken larger than his head.

“Boy,” barks the man, his tone unprovoking yet demanding. Dabi screws his eye into a drilling glare. “Would you like to come with me?” Dabi pauses, startled by the proclamation. Here he thought the man was going to play interrogation or some shit, and realise Dabi just isn’t fit for taming, and eventually find another kid.

Man just missed the whole interview- and he’s going to regret it.

To the side, Rachel also looks equally unsettled, almost appearing uncharacteristically concerned for the man. 

Well, Dabi doesn’t feel bad. It’s _his_ fault for being dumb; Dabi literally cleaned the sink with his spit just second ago, so this decision is solely on him. “You come with me, and I promise I’ll cook you that chicken for tonight.”

He clutches Chicky a bit tighter.

“Sir, are you sure?” Rachel stammers. 

“Yes. I need a boy to work on my fields- the property’s too big for my current staff, as well as too hard for them. My staff is full of hardworking servants who are spoiled by the indoors and toiled soils. Having someone young and ambitious like him would be good for real outdoor work,” croons the landlord.

And Dabi doesn’t like this. Tonguing the slits in his cracked lips, Dabi eyeballs the way Rachel appears conflicted in the background, almost like she’s unsure whether or not she wants to dispose of Dabi as quickly and easily as possible, or if she should do the fair and moral thing of actually giving the man someone with credible opportunity. 

“You don’t want him,” Rachel finally says, actually doing a favour for someone for once in her life. “He’s disobedient. He’s also ugly- you see the burns on his face, don’t you? Probably mingles with the rodents, as well.” Dabi would spit some more at that. The burns are awful and sometimes itchy if dry or infected, but otherwise, the patches healed nicely into shiny and gnarled bumps. They don’t bother nor hurt him anymore for the most part, and if anything, didn’t puzzle his facial structure, unlike a few other burn victims he’s seen. He probably does have fleas, though. “He would definitely run away the moment you turn your back on him.”

“Would you?” Murmurs the man, who slowly steps forward, and Dabi straightens his back, something feral and wary drawing his tendons tight. Creep.

“Yeah,” Dabi retorts genuinely. It’s not like he wants to be bought- he likes the freedom the orphanage offers, letting him slip out the windows during cool nights and bring in insects he found between the cobblestone of the paved streets. “Like hell I’ll be told what to do.”

“Dabi!” Both him and the man ignore Rachel. It’s really not that hard. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t blame human nature for seeking freedom,” the landlord says flippantly, and Dabi doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like such atypical behaviours, doesn’t like his insouciant tone that sounds almost impenetrable against words meant to bite. And Dabi’s only defense is the sharpness of his tongue and the wickedness of his mind. 

He almost feels inferior. 

“His name is Dabi?” Rachel nods, and Dabi doesn’t like how he asked her with his dark eyes shadowed underneath a flamboyant and excessive face mask plastered over his face, still fixated on Dabi himself. “Well. Dabi. Join me, and I promise in less than three months, you’ll end up with freedom you’ll never experience even as a normal citizen. I have a plan, and I want you to be a part of it.”

“Are we still talking about towing land?”

“I’m a noble. In my house, rising the ranks means living in luxury. I want to adopt you.”

“Oh. No thanks.”

“If you join me, I’ll roast your chicken. You can have your entire chicken.”

Dabi stares at the man. The man who appeared at the door of a physically moulding orphanage, saw Dabi walking by, clutching a chicken that barely fit under his twiggy arm, smelling like dirt and souring meat, and _still_ thought “ _yes_.”

* * *

"So basically, you said yes because he offered to roast your damn chicken?”

“That chicken’s going to go bad before he roasts it,” observes the other asshole. 

And Dabi refuses to admit so, but if he knew this was how his day was going to turn out, he would’ve automatically refused the man’s offer.

Especially since he didn’t know he was going to get knocked out over the head, and wake up nauseous with rope around his limbs in the rocky back of a horse-drawn cart, surrounded by _other_ boys.

Wow, and here he thought he was special.

“You chose to come, too,” Dabi bites back, snarling.

“Not because I _wanted_ to,” retorts the blonde, who appears five seconds from gnawing off Dabi’s ankle.

“Both of you guys are idiots,” snap another boy, who’s even _weirder_ than the other boy. The blonde’s eyes are technically brown, but almost appear fluorescently bloody everytime the sun glares through the creaking openings of their wooden walls and ceilings. But at least his hair is _normal._ This kid almost appears undead- almost the same colour as his damn chicken: slightly grey in the shadows. His hair, light to the point of an ethereal silver, is practically unreal; it almost looks like a corpse blue. 

And if the other boy’s eyes are deceptively red at times, then this boy’s eyes almost scream hell.

“I wasn’t the one who stole food and wasted time taking something raw,” remarks the blonde, who’s seated across from Dabi, in a perfect position to jab Dabi in the crotch with a calloused foot if angered enough. Another incentive for Dabi to knee him in the face first.

“That’s why I came. To cook it. And even if you didn’t want to come, you still chose to come.” Dabi snaps, hating how he’s cramped, hot, and still seconds from vomiting with each jolt the cart gives.

“I didn’t! I didn’t want to come. Fuckin’ kidnapper, I swear to god,” bites the blonde, who appears ready to stumble onto his feet to fight. Dabi hopes to the damned gods he does, so he can knock him down. “I never agreed to this bullshit.”

“Cry about it later.” Grits out the third boy. “I doubt any of us want to be here. The boss is probably going to place us to work with manure or something. It’s not that bad, at least we’ll have a house.” 

And Dabi doesn’t trust that. Doesn’t trust nobles, the rich, people who buy other people.

He’s definitely going to run away. 

He glances pitifully at Chicky who’s now rocking sadly next to his bare feet.

“Bullshit, like fuck we can trust the landlord.” Hisses the boy. “I bet there’s some shady shit going on. No the fuck way he’d adopt kids to work-” he licks his teeth, almost savagely. “No way.”

“We’re orphans with an attitude problem. We’re cheaper than normal slaves or servants,” grunts the squid-blue boy. “It makes sense he bought us, thinking we’re the better deal.”

“Naw it fuckin’ doesn’t. Common sense: you pay the price for the quality,” sneers the blonde. Maybe he isn’t as much of a tempermental airhead as Dabi initially thought. “We’re done for. If he’s smart, he wouldn’t trust kids like us on his property, especially to work on it. Wouldn’t trust us to not steal or run away. For fuck’s sake- you literally stole a chicken, he has no reason to trust us. There has to be another purpose for using orphans and streetrats. He prolly gonna send us down to make dirty money,” growls the blonde, and Dabi looks down. He makes sense. 

Then, the cart teeters to a stop, lurching to the left and sending them grunting as they lean forward on their kneeling positions.

Dabi groans as Chicky rolls over, only to shut up upon hearing footsteps and voices. A conversation. “Was there someone else with the landlord?” Dabi mutters, eyeing the door to the cart cautiously, sensing the danger of the unknown behind it. 

“Did you not see the big man behind him? One that also wears a mask like a weirdo?” Scoffs the bonde. “Stupid.” 

Dabi flushes, ready to metaphorically or perhaps literally bite back (and transmit all his rabies, because fuck this guy), when the door flings open. 

Dabi decides he’ll bite him later.

“Get out,” commands the foreign man, not unkindly. It must be who the blonde was referencing- as his face is obscured by a helmet, almost like a pitiful ripoff of a castle knight. Dabi and the other two boys exchange awkward glances, for once, getting along as a trio. “Get. Out.”

They get out.

“Hello, boys.” And it’s _him_. That bitch. 

“You promised to cook my chicken,” Dabi says lowly. At this, the landlord, absolutely unphased by the venom in his tone, simply stares at the three. 

“Don’t talk back,” hisses the other man.

“Kurogiri, stand down,” the landlord commands coldly. “Hello. I’m your new owner. Afo.” Stupid name. Stupid face. Dabi internalises the hate he holds for the landlord. “And you three are a special staff on your own. Sit down.”

“On the dirt?”

“You’re already dirty,” Afo responds, his tone the same confident casualness only a privileged man can afford to have. Yet, Dabi instantly recoils at the disagreeing iciness in his gaze, the way it pins the blonde boy down. 

He does however, take a second to relish at the blonde’s involuntary flinch.

The other boy who looks even _deader_ in the sunlight, looking like someone’s ashy ankles, sits down on folded legs without rebuttal. Dabi flops down beside him, and gazes smugly at the blonde who disgruntedly squats onto his feet. 

“Now, you must be wondering why I adopted you three.” And none of them are stupid enough to say ‘field work’, though, Dabi somewhat wants to toss that answer out there to see what response it fishes back. “What are your names?”

“None of your damn business,” barks the blonde. Afo remains passive. 

Then, this Kurogiri, clocks him in the nape with a heavy hand. Startled, Dabi quickly scurries away, slamming into the other boy who grunts, yet, is shocked into submission by the heavy blow as well. The blonde snarls, recovering quickly, as if prepared for a thrashing.

“Don’t talk back. Obedience is necessary for the mission I want to give you three,” Afo explains, unhurried. “What are your names?”

Dabi stares, eyeing Kurogiri’s presence that’s still behind Bakugou, who’s now knocked onto his feet.

God. He hates submission. Hates demands. Hates it when people try and reign him in.

For a second, he sympathises with the blonde.

Then, the spark of empathy that he felt through an eternity of hazy indifference, flushes into smoke, suffocated into nothingness.

“Shigaraki,” says the boy beside him, his back straight, eager to impress. Dabi inwardly snorts. Pushover. Desperate. There’s an obvious childish need to please, to be seen as better than what he really is- better than all of them.

“Dabi,” he lazily drawls, refusing to play into Afo’s presence, gesturing it away without a care.

“And you?” Afo nods towards the blonde, who remains feral.

“Just say your name, don’t try and act masculine,” mutters Shigaraki. “Makes you look immature and pitiful. The scum someone would skim off the surface of a boiling swamp.” and Dabi stares. He swears he saw something. The flash of cold amusement in his gaze. Maybe Shigaraki isn’t a boring wuss after all.

“Mind your own business,” replies the blonde, and _oh_ , he sounds almost put together, absolutely undeterred. “Yer an extra character; imagine thinking your opinion is relevant. I’m Bakugou Katsuki. Fuckin’ need something?”

“Yes. I do need something. But.” Afo pauses, as if for dramatics.

Dabi isn’t impressed.

“I only need some _thing_. Not things. Only one of you,” he elaborates, but really, not doing that at the same time, because he’s vage as fuck and Dabi is tired of it. “I’m going to let you three into a plan, something that if it gets out, ever told to anyone else, I’ll have to kill you.”

Dabi pauses.

“You serious? We’re going down this route?” Bakugou snorts. “Get in line- many people want to kill me.” Dabi takes a second. He doesn’t know any appropriate response to that. 

Afo takes a long, condescending sip from a teacup that Dabi literally swears he wasn’t holding just second ago. He turns to the side, and sees Kurogiri, staring directly back at him, clutching a random porcelain teapot that definitely was not there earlier.

“Like I said. I only need one of you boys to accomplish my task. Bakugou, _you_ are the extra- you’re disposable. You’re not necessarily the main character. Watch your words,” and Dabi wait for Bakugou to promptly explode, to probably go down fighting, but, to his surprise and disgruntled admiration, Bakugou appears almost impassive, bored by Afo’s words. 

“Fuckin’ fair,” Bakugou finally replies, though, there’s a nonchalance he wears. As if he’s only agreeing because he feels like it, not because anyone told him to. God. Kids like him exist? 

“Anyways, I’m sure the three of you are hungry.”

“I mean. We’re orphans,” Dabi shrugs.

“No. Not anymore,” Afo says, his mask promptly hiding his features, yet, Dabi can’t help but wonder what face he’s making while saying those words. “Kurogiri, please hand me a roll.” 

And because Kugoiri is proving himself to be Jesus, bringing food and water and whatever the hell out of nowhere, he approaches Afo with a bag, retrieving a bap of bread. “Tell me,” Afo begins, tearing the bread. Dabi watches, fascinated. Is he going to eat it? How is he going to eat it with the mask? “Who’s the current ruler of the kingdom?”

The three of them make eye contact again, irritating Dabi inwardly because it’s not like they know each other or have any bond, yet, there’s an annoying sense of comfort at seeing the same animalistic distrust reflected off of the others’ gazes. “Dabi.”

“What?”

“Answer my question.”

Dabi stares. “I don’t know. I haven’t gone to school or had a tutor once in my life. Obviously”

Then, he sees Shigaraki raise his hand. Huh. “It’s the Todoroki family,” Shigaraki answers as Afo gestures amiably towards him. 

“Correct,” Afo says, and suddenly, tosses Shigaraki a tear of bread. Shigaraki stares at him, eyes wide. 

“What are we, dogs?” Snarls Bakugou, though, Dabi catches the way his eyes wander over to the sack of bread sitting next to Kurogiri. “Dehumanising,” he mutters. 

Bold and prideful words- unwise, since Bakugou looks just as skinny as all of them. 

Shigaraki shrugs. “Not my issue you’re stupid and proud.” Then, a terrifyingly wide smile cracks across the boy’s flaky skin. “Those two traits are interchangeable, unfortunately for you.”

“Untrue, because if so, you’d talk like you’d have a hole in your brain,” Bakugou begins, standing up, only for Afo to hold up a hand.

“Bakugou,” Afo says, voice hard. Dabi stares, tongue drying at the unmistakable tone that adults always use right before a beating, one used to paralyse their prey before approaching with a belt. “How many children does the Todoroki family have?”

“The fuck?” Bakugou hisses. “I don’t learn bullshit like that.”

“Shigaraki?” Afo looks over Bakugou, almost like trash. Fair enough. 

“I’m. I’m not sure.” Shigarkai almost sounds guilty, something hesitant in his tone as he admits his lack of an answer.

Then, Afo turns his gaze to Dabi. He shrugs. “Dunno.”

Afo exhales, almost as if they failed him. Which they technically did. Which is _also_ unfair because he literally bought them from an orphanage- what did he expect? “A total of four children. Natsuo, Shouto, Fuyumi, and Touya.”

Shigaraki’s hand jolts upwards beside him, and Dabi jerks away, irritated, as his fingers snag against Dabi’s ear. “Wait- sir.” Shigaraki begins as Afo nods towards him. He licks his lips, awkwardly stretching the skin of his neck almost nervously. “I never heard of Touya.”

Then, another scrap of bread goes flying over to Shigaraki.  
“Whoa, wait, what the hell, he didn’t even answer a question!” Bakugou snarls, clearly outraged. Dabi sighs. He wants his damned chicken cooked. 

“Yes, but he was curious. He wanted knowledge- wanted more. And you, Bakugou, are you curious past the limited and narrow knowledge you hold in your own world?” And _ouch_. Sure enough, Bakugou’s previous cool against any insults withered away at such a direct offense, defensiveness clamping the boy’s features into something unreadable, inhuman. Before Bakugou can retaliate either physically or verbally (the former feeling more likely considering the mild homicidal rage oozing out Bakugou like pheromones), Afo continues, not even taking a moment to relish in his victory. “Shigaraki, do you know what positions the three children you know of have?”

And Dabi’s hungry. “Shouto’s the heir,” he answers loudly. Afo glances at him.

“Yes, but as the youngest Todoroki, he’s currently only seven. Do you know why Natsuo isn’t the heir?” Shigaraki shakes his head, while Dabi stares at him.

“Don’t I get food? I answered your question,” sorta answered.

“You didn’t raise your hand. I asked Shigaraki directy.” Afo expounds patiently, something sardonic frosting his tone. _And bullshit_ . “You interrupted Shigaraki. Ms. Rachel said you had problems with your manners. You don’t get rewards for acting out.” Then, he chuckles. “And, it’s _Prince_ Shouto. You’re an orphan, don’t use their names lightly.”

“What the fuck I-” Dabi begins. 

“And Prince Natsuo was raised as a general- someone to lead the knights,” Afo intervenes, rounding to Shigaraki, stunting Dabi’s angry stammering into an undignified silence.

He exhales his temper, and instead, disengages himself from the source of all his trepidation and anger. He stares at the sky above. 

Huh.

The cloud vaguely resembles a fish.

“He was striving for that position ever since he was young. Once their original plan of having First Prince Touya inherit the throne gone wry, it was decided it’d be better to simply have another child, and see if it came out male. If so, they’d raise him for kingly duties rather than switch Natsuo’s entire lifestyle, and if it was a female, they’d have another marriage opportunity, and they’d force Natsuo to become king.”

“Rip to Natsuo, but I’m different,” Dabi yawns. 

Dabi doesn’t have to see Afo’s face to know he’s displeased.

“Meanwhile, Fuyumi is planned to marry off into the royal family of Ascar, to build relations between them and Tokio.” Afo explains. “Now. Who’s king right now?”

And Dabi’s _hungry_ , and his chicken is probably just bad now. He raises his hand, feeling conflicted between his needs and his humiliation at such an act of submission. Whatever. He paints himself with a casual and indifferent posture, one not easily abashed or proud. Afo motions towards him, and Dabi flops his hand back down. “The king.”

Afo stares at him. 

“Dabi, just shut up.” Shigaraki doesn’t even sound scornful, just existing without a cause.

“Uh. the elder Todoroki?” Dabi elaborates. “Enji? Enji Todoroki?”

“I mean. He’s not wrong.” Bakugou murmurs, and Dabi glares, unsure as to why the self-absorbed boy is suddenly placid with him.

“No, he’s wrong,” Afo replies cheerfully. “‘Enji’. Strange of you to use his first name- most people know him as ‘Endeavour’ for all his conquests.”

“I- is there _another_ father that’s king?” Dabi squints. “And when are you going to cook my ch-”

“Enji Todoroki is dead. Therefore, the heir is currently seven-year-old, Fourth Prince Shouto.”

Dabi falls silent, staring at him. No way. “Wait,” his tongue feels heavy. “Do I not get bread?”

“Nope.” 

Well _fuck_. The bread even looks like good quality: the inside white, made out of real flour and not potato; and the way it squishes easily in Afo’s hand indicates it’s fresh.

“Isn’t that like. Really bad news for the kingdom?” Dabi grunts, trying to derail his attention from his hunger.

“No shit,” and good to know Bakugou’s still a jackass. 

Dabi is literally going to curbstomp this boy.

“Well. That’s bad. Other countries will certainly try and take advantage of our state,” Shigaraki murmurs, and Dabi wonders if he’s boasting the _very obvious knowledge he has_ , but then he note the distance in Shigaraki’s gaze, the way he isn’t even gazing in their general direction. 

He’s talking to himself.

Oh. So he’s just weird.

“And then there’s the corruption in the court itself, and the idea that people will want to take the throne for themselves. Without a single unmovable kingly figure, no one will be satisfied with whatever replacement take over that position-” Shigaraki, the dirtbag, is muttering. 

“Wait, hol’up creep,” Dabi snaps his fingers hard underneath Shigaraki’s flubbering mouth, calming as Shigaraki freezes, startled out of his muttering. “What the fuck does this have to do with anything?”

“Well. I’m part of the king’s court,” Afo present. “I’m one of Enji’s trusted advisors.” In otherwise, a blood-sucking leech. “And as Shigarkai mentioned, there’s no ideal substitution for king, other than one of royal bloodline. Even if it was his Highness’ right hand, other advisors would feel jealous of an outsider of the bloodline having so much power, unless if it was them. Envy will hold them fast to never reaching an agreement as to who should take the throne, and no one would be sated by a seven-year-old leading us.”

“What about the queen?” Dabi suggests.

“The queen? A woman leading an entire country? You think a woman raised within this society would be prepared to take a man’s role?” Afo patronisingly muses, clearly entertained by Dabi’s thought. Dabi rolls his eyes. 

“So then what.” Bakugou grunts. “People won’t accept a suitable advisor because they’re babies over shit, and they won’t accept the queen because they can’t handle the idea of a trained model who’s raised in duties revolving around political climates actually doing what they were born to do. What the fuck now?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Afo says, like the dramatic self-shit he clearly is. Dabi wonders where his teacup went. “Touya Todoroki will just take the throne.”

Dabi takes a second. “The way y’all describe this ‘Touya’, I thought he was like. Dead.”

“He is,” Afo agrees. “Also, raise your hand.” Dabi scowls. 

Dabi takes another second, doing mental calculations and QuickMaths.

“Wait. None of this adds up-”

“Tokio needs to be united, especially before other countries smell our weakness without a King and a suitable heir.” Afo explains patiently. “Prince Shouto is too young to take the throne, and First Prince Touya has been dead for nearly a decade.” He pauses. “Or at least. Presumed so. Perhaps the pirates who set fire to his ship, didn’t actually kill the Prince. Perhaps Prince Touya was able to escape, and hid all these years to avoid another assassination. Hid, until now, when King Endeavour died, and Tokio desperately needs a ruler.”

Dabi curses himself, realising that his eyes had strayed over to the other two boys’, seeking a familiar gaze of ‘what the fuck’ in their eyes. 

“Touya-” Afo tutters. “ _P_ _rince_ Touya was never confirmed dead?” Dabi summarises, palm limply raised near his head. 

“Precisely. We can use that to our advantage. He was definitely presumed dead. And the public never saw Prince Touya much as a boy- he was weak and sick as a child. All that’s known is that he had silver hair- much like yours, Shigaraki. However, I’ve seen him once or twice, so I know a bit more than even nobles know about him.”

Dabi pauses. Right. Afo is wearing a mask.

“And his father always kept him separated from his siblings- even his fraternal twin. Therefore, none of them can be sure how Prince Touya would look as a teenager. He also would not be expected to look like his siblings. None of you guys have seen the Royal Family, but all of them look like variations of each other- vastly different. Therefore, it wouldn’t be weird if our Prince Touya doesn’t match up with them perfectly, or if we took creative liberty with his appearance. It’s his mannerisms that’ll sell. Prince Touya, despite his sickness, was a rambunctious child. Climbing things, running away, and never liked listening to authority.”

“And all of a sudden, choosing us to you know. Imposter a prince makes way more sense.” Dabi says flatly.

“I wasn’t sure about your plans at first, considering your selection,” and Shigaraki, that funny bastard, makes a show of leaning forward and craning his neck to stare at Bakugou, “but really, it’s coming together.”

“Exactly. Everyone will try and pick and jump on this opportunity- I’m sure I’m not the only one who has this idea of imposterising the dead Prince. But we’ll be the only ones to succeed. Everyone will try and match the personality of a prince, someone needed to be a king. Prince Touya however, wasn’t fit to be a king. Prince Touya was wild- it’s rumoured King Endeavour actually meant to send Prince Touya away to boarding school because he was such a disgrace to his image as a King, but that same day, on the trip that was meant to take him far away, his ship was attacked by pirates.”

“Sucks to be him,” Dabi snorts. And now he’s bored of this conversation again.

“He was cunning, however. Played tricks. Wasted his brain on distracting off his father and trying to sneak out of his separate floor to find his siblings, but the latter he was never able to do. He was an awful child. But, if Prince Touya returns, with the same mischievous nature yet the maturity of someone fit to be king, surely, the country will have no choice but to accept him.”

“That kid sounds like a dick,” Dabi snickers.

“Hm. Maybe I should drop out of the race, then,” Shigaraki clicks his tongue. “You’d surely win in that case.” Dabi flips him off.

“Once you convince the public you’re Prince Touya, you won’t have to worry about your kingly duties- I’ll be behind you to guide you, especially through politics. I don’t expect any of you to fully comprehend how to work in that environment, but, it’s necessary you at least exist as the clothespin of our country’s foundation, to prevent it from unraveling over squabbling and fights for power. Actually fulfilling your duties as a King is something I can handle. You just have to convince people our kingdom is salvagable. Our biggest problem would be convincing Prince Touya’s siblings and mother that their relative is still alive- if we’re unconvincing, they’d instead end up offended and probably behead me.”

“Guess we gotta do our worst, then,” Dabi snorts. Afo appears unhumoured, and Kurogiri’s hand that was polishing a sword (a sword Dabi didn’t see earlier, just like you know, _everything else he pulls out of nowhere_ ), slows to a threatening halt. Wow. “I was _kidding._ ” Somewhat.

“And how long do we have before you know, we’re debuted as the First Prince?” Bakugou snorts, his tone mocking, and thankfully someone else thinks this is preposterous. Even Shigaraki, who appears earlier taken by Afo, doesn’t seem willing to voice any support of his idea, and instead, watching Afo with calculative passivity. “Gotta take at least years.”

“You have three months.”

Dabi reboots his brain for a second.

Once again, through telepathic bullshit detector senses, the three of them simultaneously get whiplash as they crank their necks to stare at each other with saucered eyes sharing unease. 

“And if we fail?”

“You won’t debut.”

“But then what’ll happen to us?” Shigaraki squawks.

“Like I said. There’s only one successor needed, so of course, already there should be two of you who would ‘fail’. You simply won’t become the prince, and instead-” Afo pauses. “Well, you’ll see in the future. Don’t worry about it right now.”

And who the fuck is he fooling? He just dicking around for self-entertainment? It’s pretty obvious through common sense and communism that the two ‘losers’ are going to end up dead, and if all of them fail, then simply, they’ll all end up dead in consequence.

“I don’t want to do this,” Dabi finally speaks up. “I don’t want to be this Touya or whatever. Just let me go. I didn’t even get my chicken,” his throat is tight, Endeavour’s dead, some crazy bastard promises them freedom but really they’re going to be stuck as a king, puppeteered by Afo in the background. He should’ve took another lap around town with his chicken and missed Afo’s visit. 

“Sure.” Afo says lightly. “Run. Run away, then.”

Dabi pauses. Afo isn’t saying anything, simply breaking more pieces of bread. He glances at Bakugou, who’s raising an eyebrow with expectantly, daringly. He’s taunting him. Shigaraki’s watching him with unnervingly globule eyes, their glassy surface mirroring back Dabi’s hesitance. 

He glances at Kurogiri, who hasn’t returned polishing his sword.

His hand is gripped on the handle.

“Murder isn’t legal,” Dabi finally says. 

Afo stares at him coolly, gaze frosty behind his mask. “And neither is impersonation of the First Prince. Remember. This is all for my country, and under God’s judgement, that’ll be my justification.” _Justification, my ass._ Dabi knows an excuse when he sees one.

“So. Dabi. Think you can become a king?”

And no. Dabi has no sense of responsibility, doesn’t know what a good king looks like, doesn’t know what Touya Todoroki should’ve become.

And he stares at Kurogiri’s steady swing of the sword, and he sits down.

“Good. Now. Dabi, Shigaraki, Bakugou. Only one of you three can become Touya Todoroki.” And his tone slicks across a pavement of blood. “Do try your best.”

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHHHHHH


End file.
